“Oh, this just took a turn to the creepy side!” Karina mumbled while continuing to scroll down.
Maud Crawford lived across the street from Rose Berg, Mike’s elderly aunt. Mrs. Berg was worth close to twenty million dollars. She was in failing health and suffered from memory issues. After being declared mentally incompetent, the court appointed Maud Crawford as her personal guardian. One of the blog entries mentioned once Maud began cataloging all of Mrs. Berg’s finances, she didn’t like some of the recent land transactions between Mr. Berg and his aunt. Not only did she confront him about it a few weeks before her disappearance, but she also convinced Mrs. Berg to draw up a new will, leaving all her vast wealth split between her nieces, completely cutting out the nephew.
Though old, the investigation was listed as cold yet open. Maud Crawford was noted as a lauded attorney specializing in trusts, deeds, estate planning, and title work. Carolyn Singleton was a young woman who’d been living at the residence of Maud and Clyde Crawford, along with three other young women who were considered boarders, none who’d been at the residence the weekend the women vanished.
“Maybe that’s Betty’s connection! Was she one of the other boarders? That would explain a lot!”
Both women disappeared like two ghostly apparitions in the night. Some of the comments on the blog speculated as to whether Carolyn was a victim or the criminal behind the act on the fateful night of March 2, 1957. One comment even suggested Carolyn was Mike Berg’s lover and he forced her to kill Maud because he feared the old woman would blow the lid off the shady dealings with his aunt’s land and sent in Carolyn to handle business. That theory was ripped to shreds by several posters, stating Mike Berg was a germophobe who wore gloves everywhere and would never risk contracting some illness by whoring around.
Another anonymous poster hinted Maud and Carolyn’s bodies would be found in Berg Dam, and yet another mentioned under the parking lot of a grocery store that was under construction at the time the women disappeared. Still another shot back that Berg Dam was completed years before 1957 and to “leave the poor family alone!” The line was clearly drawn between those who felt Mike Berg was involved and those who vehemently defended his innocence.
A few posters were adamant Clyde Crawford was to blame and some even went total conspiracy theory and said the mob was sending a message. “The mob? What in the world?” Clicking on a different link, one that looked like an old message board, Karina’s breath quickened when she read one of the posts about the name of the law firm where Maud Crawford worked up until she vanished into thin air.
Gaughan, McClellan, & Laney.
“That’s the same name Wiley mentioned this morning!”
Clicking on McClellan’s name, she was immediately taken to the Wikipedia page of Senator John McClellan from Camden, Arkansas. After reading a few entries, she let out a small gasp. Wiley was right. Senator McClellan had chaired the Select Committee on Improper Activities in Labor and Management, aimed directly at the mob for labor racketeering. When she clicked on the link to the committee, her eyes widened when she noticed the name Jimmy Hoffa.
“Ha, Mom’s going to flip her lid when I show her this! Cheryl was right on target about shady dealings in this state!”
Clicking over to the map application, she typed in “Sheridan, Arkansas, to Camden, Arkansas.” The distance was less than seventy miles. Karina had chills just from the few minutes she’d been reading. Though Gram had been in California at the time, Grampa was still in close contact with Cecil since he’d entrusted his best friend to watch over the farm and land. The case made national headlines, so Karina assumed it had been discussed numerous times between Gram, Grampa, and Cecil. The rumor mill had probably been a swirling mass of paranoia and false accusations back then, so it was no surprise Gram and Cecil both reacted so strongly to the news clippings.
Unable to stand still any longer, Karina paced in circles while contemplating her next move. Part of her wanted to contact Cal and let him start investigating so he’d be the one to take the heat from Gram if ever discovered, yet something niggled inside her mind to keep a lid on the news. Until she did her own investigating, the less people who knew the better.
Mind made up, she decided to call Cal and let him have an earful about the backdoor deal he’d been a part of with Lucas and nothing more.
“No wonder you had a heart attack, Betty! What in the world do you know about this mess?” Karina whispered into the phone while waiting for Cal to answer.
Chapter 7
Hot Springs, Arkansas – Thursday, March 2, 2017
Cecil couldn’t sit still. He paced around in circles like an old rodent on a wheel—all in a hurry to go nowhere yet continuing forward, oblivious to the amount of energy wasted.
“What the hell am I gonna do? Damnit! I shouldn’t have made such a fuss, especially in front of Karina! Shoulda just played dumb like always! This can’t get out—can’t resurface again! Why, Betty? Why did you save all those clippin’s? Why in the world do you care about them two broads? They ain’t nothin’ but a pile of bones now, so let them rest in peace!”
Reaching deep inside his mind where the buried memories from decades before rested, Cecil went back to the time he hated revisiting. Though he had difficulty on occasion with short-term memory, he certainly had full clarity with the past. He couldn’t recall any kin to either Maud or Carolyn named Betty, so what was the connection? Her interest? Maybe she’d been a reporter or perhaps married to one covering the case?
He tried to convince his overtaxed mind that was the reason Betty had kept the old clippings. Maybe there were others articles on different subjects as well, written by either her hand or those of her deceased husband, and they were nothing more than faded reminders of their younger days?
Cecil wanted to believe that—craved it—yet the gnawing in his gut told him otherwise. He seemed to recall Ruthie or Junior mentioning Betty was from Louisiana not Arkansas.
Betty had a connection. He just had no idea what.
The stress and strain made breathing difficult for his remaining lung, igniting the memory of when he’d been shot on his property nearly three years prior. On instinct, his fingers found the ridges of the scar through the thin cotton shirt, as though rubbing the area would make the pain cease.
A wave of dizziness hit him hard from the lack of oxygen and the overwhelming sensation the buried secrets from his past were about to resurface. Hunching over, Cecil reached for the arm of the couch, afraid he was close to fainting. Plopping down and taking in several gulps of air, Cecil’s gaze settled on the framed pictures of him and Junior with a 12-point buck taken several years ago after Junior and Ruth moved back home, both men smiling in each photo as though they’d just won the lottery.
He remembered the day they’d gone hunting. The excursion out in the woods with his closest friend after so many years of being apart made Cecil feel like a young man again. They’d spent most of the trip talking about old times and their families rather than remaining silent while searching for their quarry. Even though Junior had always been a chatterbox, he’d seemed especially wound up that day. It was just blind luck he’d taken down the enormous buck during one of the periods of silence.
Giddy from the kill, both of them gabbed like two women at a church social during the time it took to traipse back to the four-wheelers, return to the site, clean and dress the deer and then load up the fresh meat.
Junior’s playfulness disappeared as the sun began its western descent. His tone shifted when he posed the question of how many more sunsets would they see before the last one. He’d followed the statement with a longing glance toward Cecil’s acreage, muttering about going to pay respects to Cecil’s kin buried in the family plot on the east side.
That’s when the magical afternoon vanished. For twenty minutes, Cecil tried to convince Junior to remain inside the boundaries of the Tuck property rather than venture in to Cecil’s spread, even to pay respects. Junior was stubborn and in
sisted, forcing Cecil to fake a dizzy spell so they’d head back to deer camp.
At that precise moment, Cecil realized he would never be truly free from the nightmare.
“God, this ain’t happenin’! Ma was right. Sins of the past never remain buried. They spring up no matter how deep you dig the hole.”
Staring out the window into the backyard, Cecil’s heart clenched. He watched Karina lead her big dog out toward the edge of property down near what was once the stables, now converted into storage spaces for the residents. The young woman looked beautiful as the late morning sun caressed her raven hair. He was so grateful she’d saved his life—and the lives of others—yet a part of him wished he would have been Caesar Calvanio’s final victim. It would have ended the constant worry gnawing away at his insides about the truth being discovered.
From the distance, Karina reminded him of Claire in her prime. God, how he missed his wife, yet at the same time, he was glad she’d passed on because if his past did resurface, he wouldn’t be able to live after seeing the shame and humiliation on Claire’s sweet face.
He had no doubts Claire would have looked at him with disgust, probably given him an earful about lying to her from the moment they’d met, maybe even cursed at him before storming away, yelling over her shoulder how they were through because she wouldn’t remain married to a monster.
Claire would have been right. She’d been married to a vile monster. Cecil had been a cold, quiet man who spent most of Stephen’s youth either working until he could barely put one foot in front of the other or intoxicated enough when home that he was numbed into a silent stupor. Taking care of not only his land but Junior’s too, wheeling and dealing to purchase more to expand his holdings, took all of his energy. Making sure the events back in 1957 remained buried was another added stressor. Regret and remorse for being such a poor role model to his one and only child made his lips quiver. It was all Cecil’s fault Stephen turned into a raging alcoholic and died from his addiction.
Rising to his feet, Cecil went to the old desk once owned by his father. With shaky hands, he felt around underneath the middle drawer for the locking mechanism. It took several attempts to trigger the switch and retrieve the overstuffed envelope inside.
Spreading the copies of the closing papers on the desktop, he stiffened. Land. It was the one thing his father drilled into his young brain that would bring good fortune and happiness because there was only so much created. Once it was all bought up, owners and their generations to come would be set.
He could still picture his father’s face, all wrinkled, weather-worn, and leathery from years of working under the hot sun in the muddy fields of Dallas and Grant counties. Chester Pickard Jr.’s demeanor was rougher than the thick callouses on his hands. Cecil remembered the distant, blank gaze as his father stared out over the land he owned after a long day in the fields while sipping Jack Daniels and Coca Cola.
The memory of one of the last conversations they had after Cecil returned home from the war made his eyes mist over because it was the one and only time his gruff father displayed any real emotion…
…“Just you remember, boy, land is everythin’. It’s what feeds us…where we rest our weary bones at night. It’s where we raise our families and what defines our place in this world. Our tears and blood feed the soil, forever tetherin’ our spirits together. Keepin’ it under our control was why you was fightin’ them damn Japs too.”
The early evening humidity and musty scent of the freshly plowed soil made Cecil’s skin and nose itch. The shimmering rays of the setting sun illuminated the hordes of mosquitos and gnats hovering several feet above the upturned ground of the vast field. They both stood under a large magnolia tree where his mother, Rose, and sister, Annabelle, rested. About twenty yards away from sweet Annabelle’s grave was two pieces of wood with the words “Chester Pickard Sr. B. 1878 – D. 1946” carved deep into the grain. The crude grave marker looked eerie under the orange glow.
Extracting a hanky from his back pocket, Cecil wiped away the moisture from his face while staring at his father, surprised by the depth of emotion of the words. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when he passed and you had to endure it alone. Why’d you bury him here, Pa, and not on his farm next to Meemaw?”
“That’s why I brought you here, boy, to understand. A lot happened while you was gone, so I need to prepare you for when it’s my turn to leave. When you’re starin’ death in the face, you start thinkin’ about your legacy. I’m sure after what you experienced across the ocean, you know what I mean.”
Swallowing hard, Cecil wished he didn’t have to ask. “What’s wrong, Pa?”
“Doc says I got me the cancer in my bones…the kind that can’t be treated.” Chester slapped at the insects buzzing around his head. “I’ve got three months, tops.”
“Is he sure, Pa? Have you gone to another doctor?”
“I don’t need another to tell me what I already know,” Chester interrupted. “I can feel the life bein’ sucked outta me each day. My loomin’ death ain’t why I wanted to talk to you tonight. We need to discuss our land holdin’s and I need to explain why Pops is restin’ in this soil and not in his own.”
Cecil forced his words to remain strong and hide the emotions swirling inside his heart. “Sure thing, Pa.”
“Like I said, land is everythin’. While you was off fightin’, I watched Pops shrivel up into a former husk of himself after the government showed their true colors. His acreage in Ouachita County was all he had left!”
Stunned by the words, it took Cecil a few seconds to formulate a response. “I don’t understand what you mean, Pa. What did the government do?”
“They took it all, and not just from Pops!” Chester’s booming voice rang out across the empty field. “They took away sixty-four thousand acres belongin’ to over three hundred poor souls and only gave them one month to move!”
“What? I’ve never heard of such a thing! How can they do that?”
“The paperwork said somethin’ about eminent domain. All a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo that’ll make your head spin while tryin’ to decipher the fancy words. The government swooped in and stole the land for a fraction of its worth, kicked out everyone, and then went and built them an ammunition base.”
“That’s where they built the Shumaker base? On Pop’s land?”
Nodding in agreement, Chester replied, “Yep, and the land of all the others. Boy, they was sneaky about it too. They sent out men pretendin’ to be surveyin’ for oil and gas reserves on the acreage. Lordy, so many of the folks, includin’ Pops, thought they was about to come into some real money. In all my days, I ain’t never seen my father so excited. Then, when huntin’ season started and most of the menfolk were out in the woods, including Pops, the letters arrived.”
“Letters? What letters?”
Anger turned Chester’s face bright red as he extracted an envelope from the pocket of his dungarees. He waved it in front of Cecil’s face. “The letters informin’ those poor people they weren’t land owners no more! This here is Pops’s. Most of the womenfolk at home—you know they can’t read—had no idea they was about to lose everythin’ they’d worked so damned hard for in thirty days! By the time their men returned, they had less than three weeks to leave. There weren’t no time to talk to a lawyer or nothin’, not that any had the money to pay for one. Woulda been a waste of time anyway.”
“How could hirin’ an attorney be a waste of time? Pops mighta been able to keep his farm!”
Dismissing Cecil’s words with a flick of his wrist, Chester snorted. “Wrong. I tried to help by goin’ to see the best damn land attorney in the state—Maud Crawford. She said there weren’t a thing we could do to stop the takeover. The laws are iron-clad, which ain’t surprisin’ considerin’ who drafted them! She said the only silver linin’ is if the government ever decides to sell the property, they’d have to offer it back to the previous owners at the original price paid.”
After glancing th
rough the paperwork, Cecil felt sick to his stomach. His grandparents spent every day of their lives tending the twenty-acre spread. After Meemaw passed on, the only thing keeping Pops afloat was the fertile soil. Like Pa said, the land was Pops’s most prized possession. Cecil wondered if that was because he knew the ground would always be around to yield forth her fruit.
The image of the home his grandparents had shared popped into his mind, making Cecil take a deep breath to calm his nerves. The residence started out as a one-bedroom shack, built by Cecil’s great-great grandfather and each generation added their own touch, including additional rooms, sturdier floors and strong windows. The day before Cecil left to report for active duty, he’d helped Pops build an extension of the porch so it wrapped around the full three rooms.
Cecil always cared for the place yet didn’t realize the depth of the connection until Pa dropped the awful news. How could the country he served do such a thing to its citizens? To his own relative? He sacrificed so much while he was away—time, blood, sweat, and tears that would never be returned to him—and the reward was coming home to such treachery? There was plenty of other land the Navy could have purchased!
Though not nearly the same, a brief flash of a connection to all the Native Americans who’d been treated no better than sick cattle as the land they called home was taken away made Cecil understand the devastation they must have felt.
Scowling, Cecil turned his attention back to the crude grave. “So that’s why Pop’s is in our ground rather than his own. What…what happened to Meemaw’s grave?”
Chester looked away, pretending to wipe away a bug from his cheek. “They poured concrete over it.”
“How can they get away with such a thing!?” A wave of fury spread throughout Cecil’s chest. “It’s beyond disrespectful, desecratin’ her final restin’ place!”
Blood Loss - A Magnolia Novel Page 10
